I Broke the Dishes, Setting the Stage for 2016

Posted on December 31, 2015 by John Swinburn

 

My coffee this morning leaves something to be desired. That something is the customary mug from which I drink. I broke that mug this morning, along with an elderly soup bowl and a small porcelain bowl; the three of them waited in the kitchen sink for their turn in the dishwasher, which ran before dinner last night. As I rinsed the mug, its handle broke off, its body slamming down hard on the dishes below.

I’ve been thinking about the possibility of replacing the remaining soup bowls. They are part of a set, several members of which have succumbed to eating accidents and the like over the years. But I was not planning to replace my mug, nor the porcelain bowl that, in the right circumstances, is unmatched in its ability to accommodate and display wasabi awash in soy sauce.

Normally, I do not subscribe to the philosophy that certain circumstances were “meant to be.” However, I cannot help but think, on this last day of the year, the demise of those dishes may have been destiny. The time may have been right to cast those dishes into the dustbin of history, paving the way for a new set of dishes to ring in the new year.

As I consider this possibility, I cannot help but think of all the cheap t-shirts I have ruined over the past year by allowing stains to set, impossible to remove in spite of every effort. Perhaps, like the dishes, those ruinous stains were trying to tell me something: “For the love of God, man, buy better quality t-shirts!” Or, perhaps, they were saying, “T-shirts do not suit you, stud, it’s time to dress like an adult; get a stain-resistant shirt with buttons.”

Yet, it took those dishes, sacrificing their futures as they did, to finally set the stage for a new year, replete with unfamiliar bowls. And, if the soup bowls must be replaced, what about the other, smaller, bowls? That single porcelain bowl, what about it? Where will the wasabi and soy sauce go, after the destruction of their perfect setting?

The new year calls out for so many new things; new soup bowls, new cereal bowls, new porcelain wasabi and soy sauce bowl, and a new me. Would that I could simply go out and buy the latter, rather than re-mold it from the remnants of the old one.

 

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Three Hundred Sixty-Five

Posted on December 31, 2015 by John Swinburn

In our rush to the next event, the next activity, the next interaction, we sometimes fail to appreciate those precious moments, the moments time snatches away from us as it marches inexorably along. We fail to recognize that, perhaps, a repeat of those precious moments isn’t guaranteed.

I wonder whether I appreciated enough of those moments during the year ending today. I wonder whether I paid sufficient heed to my admonition to myself with the very first ‘rumination’ I posted this year:

Make peace with the past. Make love with the present. Make plans with the future.

By and large, I believe I did. I worked to uncoil myself, a tightly wound spring; though not entirely successful, I made progress. That qualifies both as making peace with the past and making love with the present. I’ve tried, these past twelve months, to make love with the present by accepting what comes my way. I stumbled along, but never fell. And I have plans for 2016.

To all those I love—and I truly hope they know who they are—I wish them a very happy, healthy, and fulfilling year ahead.

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Old Man on the Mountain

Posted on December 30, 2015 by John Swinburn

He sat alone in the tiny, rustic one-room cabin near the crest of the mountain, looking out toward the higher snow-capped peaks across the valley below. It won’t be long, he thought, until winter takes hold.

Had there been a pane of glass in the opening in the wall, he would have been looking through a window. But his view wasn’t marred by even a smudge; his window was just an opening in the side of the cabin. Most days, rough boards—held in place by cross-members fitted into slots in the surrounding frame—filled the space. On those days, darkness permeated the cabin; the only light came from the small stone fire pit he built in one corner.

The old man hadn’t any experience building houses. Neither did he have experience felling trees, nor ripping logs into timbers. But he had learned on his own, through trial and error, to cut down trees, split logs with an ax, and fit logs and timbers together. He had built the place entirely by himself, with his own hands. The only concessions he made to modernity—save for the ax and hammer and a few other hand tools—were the heavy oil cloths he brought with him up the mountain. He lashed them on top of long, thin strips made from pine seedlings, the patchwork of uneven wood that formed the roof. The oil cloth helped protect the inside of the cabin from the rain and melting snow, though it was an imperfect solution.

He told no one where he went when he made those treks up the mountain to build the cabin. There was no one to tell, really. His wife had left him when she learned of his brain tumor. Their marriage had been a shell for years, anyway. She had lost interest in him. And he had grown to love another woman, someone close, albeit from a distance. The target of his affections never knew he longed for her.

His wife told him she was unwilling to be saddled with caring for an old man she no longer loved. When she left, their mutual acquaintances followed her out of his life, including the woman who did not know he longed for her. He had no close friends. The friends he had lived far away from him; he had told none of them of his diagnosis.

The tumors, the doctors had said, were the slow-growing variety, but had grown before detection to such a size and location in the brain that they were inoperable. The old man had ruled out radiation and chemotherapy from the start. The prognosis with or without radiation was poor, they said, but in either event it would be a moderately long-term progression.

So, two years earlier, he had begun his treks to the mountain. He had long wanted a place in the country, a place to work the land and grow crops. He had dreamed of buying a hundred acres and a tractor, but his wife dissuaded him from pursuing that dream. Instead, he lived in the city until retirement, when they moved to the mountains. That, he gathered, had been her unspoken dream. Though living in a semi-rural area near mountains had never been his goal, he had grown to love the desolation they offered to a man willing to hike.

During many of those expeditions to build his cabin, he had exhibited no symptoms. But in recent months, the seizures had begun, making some of the work on the cabin difficult. In spite of the growing frequency and severity of the seizures, he had finished the rustic structure. He was proud of the skills he had mastered, proud to have learned them on his own.

As he sat on the rough bench, gazing at the valley below, he came to a decision. He had made his last trek down the mountain. He would stay in his hand-made cabin as long as the store of food he’d stockpiled over the course of two years held out. If the food ran out before winter got him, he decided, he would find sources of food on the mountain or starve.

One way or the other, he decided, he would die in his cabin, his one friend, the friend he built by hand.

Time ratified his decision. Early the following spring, a hiker found his cabin and his body. The old man had written a letter to the woman he had secretly loved. But the letter did not name her. She would never know of his love, for the old man on the mountain took answers with him, answers to questions never asked.

 

 

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Three Hundred Sixty-Four

Posted on December 30, 2015 by John Swinburn

Some days, like today, I am more grateful for coffee than I ever expected to be. A cup of hot French roast coffee in my mug is my drug of choice; secret lovers, my coffee and I.

Buried deep in the recesses of my mind, I suspect there’s a memory of my first cup of coffee, but I can’t seem to get to that memory. Instead, my earliest recollection of drinking coffee is from my college days at the University of Texas at Austin. The coffee I drank was from a machine on the first floor of the UT Tower, where I’d go to read books among the “stacks” of the main library. I put my quarters in the machine, pressed a button that said “black, no sugar” or something like that, and waited for the machine to drop a waxy paper cup onto a tray. Then, in a moment, a nozzle pumped coffee into the cup. The coffee was bitter and only luke warm, but apparently I thought it was drinkable.

Coffee remains close to my heart. I’ll never abandon you, coffee.

Posted in Ruminations | 1 Comment

Life of the Party

Posted on December 29, 2015 by John Swinburn

Some people thrive on their reputations, crafted with meticulous care. They seem to believe their own hype, buying into the stories they tell others in their efforts to be more vibrant, more alive, more interesting. I know this because I’ve watched those people tell their stories. And, I suppose, I’ve been the teller of those stories when I was feeling particularly lonely and vulnerable.

It’s heart-breaking to watch those people ratchet up their magnetism beyond the point of credibility. Suddenly, that self-made glamour becomes a fabric façade—as diaphanous as an old threadbare sheet—hoisted to catch the wind to carry them to the next opportunity to shine. But that gossamer sail is torn to shreds by even the lightest gusts.

The tellers of those tales, I think, aren’t looking for glory. They’re looking for relevance, for evidence their lives and their stories matter. Listening to them, one’s inclination is to think the tellers are full of arrogance, their tales simply bravado that takes the form of boasts that support their bluster. That’s frequently not the case; that assumed arrogance is just a mask for insecurity, symptomatic of low self-worth and sadness.

When I encounter the life of the party, I’m always suspicious. I wonder whether, beneath the sparkling exterior, there’s someone who desperately needs assurance there really is someone who cares, someone who won’t be judge, jury, and executioner. It’s hard, though, to offer that assurance to someone who doesn’t want it and wouldn’t admit to needing it. That’s when it’s easiest to assume the life of the party is, truly and simply, arrogance personified. That’s when it’s easiest to become that judge, jury, and executioner. And that’s when it’s most important not to.

 

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Three Hundred Sixty-Three

Posted on December 29, 2015 by John Swinburn

We assume things will always be as they always have been. When the rain starts, we assume the skies ultimately will clear; that’s the way it’s always been. When a war begins, we assume it will eventually end; that’s the way it’s always been. When we catch a cold, we assume there will come a time when we recover our health; that’s the way it’s always been.

These are reasonable assumptions, based on our experience. Yet history reminds us that change is constant.

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If I Didn’t Need Sleep

Posted on December 28, 2015 by John Swinburn

If I didn’t need sleep, I could get so much more done. Late at night, I’d have the house to myself. I could let my mind wander down paths it rarely takes during my waking hours.

Absent the need for sleep, and with a clear mind uninterrupted by conversations or daydreams or text messages or the sound of cars passing on the street or the noise of the television coming through the wall, uncharted ideas and possibilities might fully develop in my head.

If my mind and my body could survive without the requirement for restorative sleep, I could accomplish so much more, both physically and mentally. At night, when the rest of my world sleeps, I could practice disciplines to improve my mind and to relax the tightly-wound person I have always been. My desire for serenity, an unrealistic desire for someone of my temperament and lack of discipline, could become reality.

Alone, in the deepest darkness of the night, I could practice autogenic relaxation and progressive muscle relaxation and deep breathing and dozens of other focused means of stilling the mind.

In fact, I don’t need to go without sleep to accomplish any of the possibilities I wrote about in the paragraphs above. With sufficient motivation to accomplish them, I will accomplish every one of them that matters to me.

“If I didn’t need sleep” is a convenient crutch, absolving me of responsibility. When I remove that unnecessary crutch, clearly the responsibility becomes mine.

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Three Hundred Sixty-Two

Posted on December 28, 2015 by John Swinburn

As I glance at the “dashboard” of my blog, I notice there’s a snapshot of just a few of the categories I’ve assigned to posts I’ve written. The visible topics are: racism, rant, regret, religion, resolutions, ruminations, and science. I click to find my “most used” topics and the snapshot changes to: thoughts for the day, ruminations, just thinking, philosophy, writing, food, fiction, and wisdom.

I scroll to the top of the alphabetical list of all categories and see: absurdist fantasy, aging, architecture, art, beer, books, business, and cars. I scroll down further and see cash gifts, change, climate change, clothes, communication, compassion, complacency, and computer maintenance. I scroll down further: sculpture, secular morality, self-discipline, selfishness, sense of place, serenity, sloth, and sound.

It occurs to me that the list of categories is the only place, outside my head, where all the things I think about are visible. However, a couple of topics that are always on my mind remain absent. Those missing topics—the subjects I’ve chosen (consciously) not to write about and share—form a wall around my writing. At some point, that wall must come down if my writing is to be as revelatory as I think it should be. It’s not courage that keeps me from writing about those topics, it’s compassion.

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Telling Lies Versus Keeping Secrets

Posted on December 27, 2015 by John Swinburn

It is not hard to keep secrets that must be kept. Secrets that have the potential to do serious damage of one kind or another—inflicting serious emotional or physical harm, for example—keep easily. While guilt may cause discomfort to the person keeping the secret, the reality of the cataclysmic consequence of revealing a secret or breaking a confidence keeps it locked safely inside.

The ease or difficulty of keeping a secret is irrelevant, though, to the decision to keep it. The decision to keep it is a moral choice; yet it doesn’t matter whether the secret itself has any moral dimensions. The moral aspect has to do with the effect of keeping, versus revealing, the secret. I could argue that it is right and proper and absolutely moral to keep a secret, the subject of which is clearly immoral. I would argue it’s the effect of revealing it that I’m judging, not the content of the secret. Keeping a secret is not the same as telling a lie, though it may be necessary to tell a lie to keep the secret, in which case the lie could be a legitimate tool, not an affront to honesty.

Some mornings, my mind has nothing more important to do than explore topics that other people might see no point in exploring. This may well be one such topic.

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Three Hundred Sixty-One

Posted on December 27, 2015 by John Swinburn

Today is Sunday, the very last one anyone will experience during 2015. That, in and of itself, merits special attention. But so, too, does every day, if one considers the matter in context.  For example, every Monday is the very last Monday of each week. Every third Thursday is the only third Thursday of each month. And if you look at the month of July as a whole, you come to realize it is the only July in any given year. They’re all special. They all deserve reverence.

Well, the days may not deserve reverence, but the experiences with them most certainly do. To experience each day or each month or each third week of a month as unique is to recognize and celebrate the fleeting nature of our time on earth.

 

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Angry Skies

Posted on December 26, 2015 by John Swinburn

Yesterday’s clear skies and unseasonably warm temperatures are giving way to cloud-laden skies likely to deliver sheets of rain and unseasonably warm temperatures. If I could exercise some degree of control over the weather, I would do it. Because, you see, today I had scheduled a guy to come clean up leaves and other detritus from wind-beaten trees. I have tried to keep up with it, but my puny electric leaf blower isn’t up to the task; the work requires a gas-powered monster that can deliver enough velocity to force decaying leaves from spaces between rocks.

Alas, I think it’s unlikely my guy will be able to do the work today. Back to weather-control; I would if I could but I can’t. I’ll wait to see if the guy thinks he might come between storms; I rather doubt it. As I write this, claps of thunder shake the house and the lights flicker. Methinks this is some pretty powerful weather.

One of the draws of living “in the forest” was that I would no longer have to do yard work, which I defined as mowing and edging a lawn. I now understand that yard work encompasses other things. I am not complaining. I am simply making an observation about something I did not quite “get” earlier.

Okay. Enough of this. The weather is getting a bit too intense. I’ll post, unplug, and chill.

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Three Hundred Sixty

Posted on December 26, 2015 by John Swinburn

Humans want to connect with other humans, to share their thoughts and wishes and dreams. And we want to be with other people, physically; we want to dine with friends and family, attend events with them, and simply be in their presence. We want to be part of a community.

Yet, simultaneously, we jealously guard our privacy and our space. Is it any wonder, then, that we frequently misread others’ signals and misinterpret their moods? The upshot is that we must try to be far more discerning in our reading of other people. And, by the same token, we need to be conscious of the way we behave so we can help others know how to read our moods. As a rule, the vast majority of people don’t want unpleasantness; we can help avoid it by being observant and by being more emotionally articulate.

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Another Christmas

Posted on December 25, 2015 by John Swinburn

A benefit of writing every day, and keeping a chronological record of what one has written, is the ability to look backward from year to year to annually check one’s state of mind.

This morning I looked back a year to 2014 and found that things haven’t changed so much. I still have the same wishes and dreams. The same obstacles confront me. I feel the same competing emotions. Though I do not feel that time stands still, certain elements of one’s personality seem to be etched in rock, impossible to change even with diamond-tipped drills and the passion to break that rock into a thousand pieces.

I looked back another year and found the same man who’s writing this post wrote a post on Christmas Day in 2013. How do I know he’s the same man? Well, here’s a brief excerpt from the post, which asked the question: “Why not make Mexican-Indian fusion sometime soon?” I responded to that question by suggesting some possibilities:

  • lamb vindaloo tamales;
  • chicken vindaloo tacos;
  • tandoori carnitas;
  • bhindi masala burritos;
  • picadillo samosas;
  • arroz con gobhi Manchurian (to really mix it up);
  • baigan guisada;
  • biryani con camarones.

I wish all who read this message, and all who don’t, a happy holiday season…a Merry Christmas…and I hope the upcoming year allows you to turn the rocks in your path into smooth sand. And, if you get hungry for something unusual, something spicy, something adventuresome, think of me, would you?

Posted in Happiness | 3 Comments

Three Hundred Fifty-Nine

Posted on December 25, 2015 by John Swinburn

The difference between confidence and arrogance is like the difference between belief and desire; there’s a connection, but it is distant and labyrinthine. There exists a similarity, too—and a gulf—between confidence and timidity. The appearance of timidity does not necessarily signify a lack of confidence; it often signals respect for another’s right to hold a different point of view.

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Recording and Recalling

Posted on December 24, 2015 by John Swinburn

I seem to have gotten out of the habit of keeping a record of my days. Though I’ve never been obsessive about it, keeping track of what and where I ate, places we visited, and interesting things we encountered was my custom.

Before I was a blogger, that is, before July 2005, I carried small wire-bound notebooks (and frequently still do) in which to record my thoughts and observations. By the time I started blogging, I had a stash of little notebooks in which I had jotted notes. I tended to write the dates of my notes, so later when I reviewed the notebooks I was able to reconstruct the sequence of events. I don’t know now why I did not keep all of those notebooks. Somewhere along the line I either discarded most of them or lost them. Only a few of them remain.

Subsequently, I used my blog—both this one and several other ones (some of which still exist)—as the repository of my recollections. When the mood strikes me, I rather enjoy reading what I wrote, not because of the quality of the writing, but because of the memories the writing triggers.

The volume of memories contained in the huge numbers of posts I have written is staggering; so very, very much can happen in ten years. But the posts cover more than the last ten years. On many occasions, I wrote about earlier experiences, things like my parents’ deaths and the rare recollections from my childhood.

Lately, I haven’t been using my blog as a journal as much as I have done in the past. I think I might start using it in that fashion again soon. Perhaps, instead of recording my thoughts in my daily “ruminations,” I may write about my daily experiences and progress toward objectives I set for myself.  I’ve done a bit of that with Facebook, but sorting through Facebook posts is far more difficult and time-consuming than searching my blog.

I look at what I’ve just written and notice my use of “might” and “perhaps” and “may.” It seems I’m not quite sure of what I’ll do, doesn’t it? Well, I’ll do something, even though I don’t yet know with certainty just what.

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Three Hundred Fifty-Eight

Posted on December 24, 2015 by John Swinburn

As I sit at my desk, peering out the window into the shadowy darkness; the differences between day and night command my contemplation.

On a clear day, awash in a wild spectrum of colors and contrasts, my eyes delight in seeing jagged ribbons of bark—grey and sage and brown—snake up the trunks of the trees outside the window, the shadows between ribbon enriching the tapestry and making it complex. Drab green lichens writhe up and around trees. Moss rests atop rock outcroppings in a sea of mottled brown and tan leaves covering the ground. The bright blue sky forms a backdrop to pine trees across the street. Looking at the trees and the leaf-littered ground, I see everything in high-definition, crisp and sharp. The brightness of the day is a metaphor for fulfillment and joy.

At this hour, though, the color is gone. There’s only darkness, interrupted by dull shadows and an occasional dim light; or maybe it’s just a reflection of light on a drop of water on a leaf. Though I know there are trees outside my window, I cannot see them. I cannot see the leaves on the ground, nor the moss-covered rocks. There may be nocturnal animals crawling along the ground, sniffing at the house. I can see nothing but shadows. The dimness of the pre-dawn darkness is a metaphor for sorrow.

Yet when the sun begins to crawl over the horizon, a hint of a smile emerges across the sky; the melancholy of darkness begins its transition to vivacity. The evolution of night to day is a metaphor for hope. And I forecast the darkness outside my window will evolve into a bright, clear day.

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Three Hundred Fifty-Seven

Posted on December 23, 2015 by John Swinburn

This new day is replete with opportunities to counter frustrations; I intend to seize on every single one of them.

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Three Hundred Fifty-Six

Posted on December 22, 2015 by John Swinburn

I coax myself into believing things I want to believe. I think I see or sense emotions in another person and hope I am right; believe there’s truth in my hoped-for perception. But, when my self-deception can no longer sustain itself, I must acknowledge the stark reality that fantasies and facts do not necessarily coincide in the real world. There is nothing wrong with daydreams, but emerging from their reverie to find them shattered tends to tear at the fabric of euphoria, turning vindication into sorrow.

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A Christmas Story

Posted on December 21, 2015 by John Swinburn

Virginia O’Malley got in line to buy a copy of the band’s latest album, A Christmas Musical Lexicon. The band’s concert was scheduled to begin just two hours later, but that left plenty of time to get the album and find her seat.  She was not much of a fan of Christmas music, but she loved the band, Solving Riddles, and every purchaser that evening would be eligible for a drawing to win a face-to-face dinner after the concert with the lead singer, Ed Titter. After she completed the purchase, she completed the entry form given to her by the cashier and dropped it into the large cylindrical raffle drum, fashioned from heavy gold screen.

The concert lived up to her expectations and then some. She was giddy in anticipation at the end of the concert when Ed Titter rolled the barrel, opened the little door on the side of the drum, and stepped to the microphone.

Titter scanned the room as a hush fell over the crowd. When the theater was virtually silent, he began.

“You guys have been a terrific audience tonight! As promised, one of you will now join me for dinner backstage, where the facility has set out an absolutely fabulous meal for the two of us! And the winner is…Virginia O’Malley! Come on down to the stage, love, and let’s spend some time together!

Virginia screamed when she heard her name. The audience erupted into cheers and the people seated around her gave her high fives.

She felt her face flush as she rushed down the aisle to the stage. When she reached the stairs, she called up to Titter, “I’m Virginia!”  Titter motioned for her to come up the stairs and reached down to take her hand.

“All righty, Virginia, let’s go back stage and enjoy our meal!”

He led her behind the rear curtain, where a small table, dressed in a white tablecloth waited. A pair of crystal wine glasses sparkled next to fine china plates and sterling silver tableware.  Standing at attention next to the table was a young man in a tuxedo. When he saw her, he gestured to one of the two chairs and pulled it away from the table. She sat in the chair and the waiter helped her scoot closer to the table.  Titter took the chair across from her.

“I hope you like salmon, Virginia,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, yes, I do. But I rarely have it because it’s so expensive!”

“Well, you can have as much as you like this evening. All the members of the band will have salmon this evening, courtesy of this venue. Our manager negotiates special perquisites, including meals, with every place we play. It’s called a rider. Sometimes, we’ll negotiate to have caviar and imported French champagne after the concerts. Or we might want a liter bottle of single malt Scotch for each band member back stage upon arrival.”

Titter watched Virginia’s eyes widen as he spoke of their contracts and contract riders.  He continued.

“The contract with this building calls for fifty pounds of Alaska Chinook salmon to be available to us and our guests. It’s not salmon season now, but the stuff we get is flash frozen when it’s caught and delivered directly here at the same time our tour bus arrives.”

Virginia had never heard of such a thing.  She thought he might be testing her to see just how gullible she was.

“That’s hard to believe! C’mon! Do you guys really have an agreement that says you get those kinds of things? Be honest, do you have a contract that says this venue has to give you Chinook salmon?”

Titter looked directly at her, his blank face betraying no emotion. After what seemed to Virginia like at least thirty seconds, he responded.

“Yes, Virginia, there really is a salmon clause.”

[I KNOW. I JUST COULDN’T HELP MYSELF.]

 

Posted in Fiction, Writing | 2 Comments

We All Have a Story

Posted on December 21, 2015 by John Swinburn

Everyone has a story to tell, a touching tale capable of melting hearts and mending fences. But, as someone said to me recently, “Your story means nothing if you don’t tell it.” She wasn’t referring to me, nor my story, but to people in general.

Telling one’s story, though, requires a willingness to put oneself at risk. It requires a willingness to shed the protective layers we tend to wrap around ourselves to protect us from rocks that may not be thrown intentionally but that hurt just as much as the ones launched with malicious intent.

I think those who understand the vulnerabilities and risks associated with story-telling can help by making clear that they will listen—or read—without judgment; that any stories shared with them remain in confidence unless the story-teller explicitly grants permission to share them.

 

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Three Hundred Fifty-Five

Posted on December 21, 2015 by John Swinburn

I started to write this morning about looking in the mirror and seeing a man I like more now than I did a few years ago. But, in the back of my mind, it occurred to me that I’ve written a number of pieces in which I mention mirrors. I did a search, just on my blog, and counted forty-three separate pieces of writing that include the word “mirror.” Discovering that oddity makes me wonder what I find special—either appealing or revelatory—about mirrors. I suspect it’s that I see my eyes when I look in the mirror; I’ve always considered a person’s eyes to be windows into their minds. By looking in the mirror, I am peering in from the outside, the way I do when I look into someone’s eyes. I wonder whether I see the same when I peer in from the outside that she sees in the mirror.

Posted in Ruminations | 2 Comments

Dog Chow Diner

Posted on December 20, 2015 by John Swinburn

I am revisiting an idea I first wrote about several years ago. Whether I am really interested in executing the idea or simply would like to see it executed remains unclear to me. Regardless, I continue to fiddle with it, making adjustments here and there, refining it a bit more each time I spend an hour thinking about it. Here is the latest iteration. I’m getting closer, I think, to actually exploring its practicalities.

————————-

Welcome to Dog Chow Diner! We’re not your average hot dog joint. Read on to learn how we’re different.

Whether you want to sit here and enjoy your meal or grab your dog and run, you’ve come to the right place. If you wish to eat here, just follow the signs for eat-in (Sit & Stay); if you plan to get take-out, go to the Fetch counter.

If you plan to eat here and want a nice view, take your food upstairs on our roof; enjoy your Hot Dog on a Tin Roof.

Once you order, you can sit back and relax; we’ll have your food ready in a jiffy. We’ll give you Dog Tags with a number; when we call your number, your food is ready!

Wednesday nights are special, because you’ll get 3 of the same hot dogs (e.g., 3 Akita dogs) for the price of 2, because Wednesdays are Three Dog Nights.

We’re hoping to allow you to bring your canine friends to join you for your meal on one day each week, if the health department allows it; if so, we’ll call those days our Dog Days. On those days, our customers can choose from a mixture of leftovers and kibble (we’ll call it Dog’s Breakfast) to share with their four-legged friends.

Once you’re finished with your meal, we invite you to relax in our Dog Ear Section, a little reading room where we have books, magazine, and comfy chairs for your relaxation and enjoyment.

ON-LEASH MENU

Akita Dog:
Wiener made with rice, bamboo shoots, nori, and rice wine, drizzled with a miso and lime dressing and wrapped in a big fluffy bun.

Alpha Dog:
A large link sausage on an oversized bun, stuffed to overflowing with mustard and sauerkraut.

Barking Dog:
A standard wiener, served on a standard bun with a wasabi-based sauce.

Basic Dog:
Traditional wiener in a soft white bun.

Bird Dog:
A 100% chicken wiener, served with traditional hot dog fixings.

Bull Dog:
100% angus ground beef served in a standard bun.

Chicago Dog:
Vienna beef hot dog, mustard, green relish, chopped onions, tomato slivers, sport peppers, celery salt.  on a bun with mustard, sport peppers, sprinkled with celery salt and served in a poppy-seed bun.

Chili Dog:
Wiener in a standard bun, topped with Wolf Brand chili, diced onions, and shredded cheddar cheese.

Corn Dog:
Your basic State Fair fare.

Deputy Dog:
Same as Police Dog, below.

Hair of the Dog:
A regular hot dog served with vodka-laced mustard and topped with your choice of condiments.

Not-a-Dog:
Vegetarian wiener, made with shaped tofu or paneer, served in a gluten-free hot-dog bun.

Police Dog:
A regular hot dog with a donut chaser (“sorry, officer, just kidding).”

Puppy Dog:
Kiddie-sized version of the basic hot dog; an under-sized wiener in an under-sized bun.

Rabid Dog:
Jalapeño sausage in a heavy bun that’s filled with jalapeño mustard.

Shar-Pei:
Hot dog wrapped in a very large steamed flour tortilla folded over itself so it’s wrinkled; stuffed with Chinese cabbage, Chinese mustard. 

Sheep Dog:
A lamb-based wiener served on pita bread with yogurt sauce and spices (a cousin of the Gyro).

Snarling Dog:
Traditional hot dog served with a habanero-based relish.

Soul Dog
A traditional wiener on a bun smeared with black-eyed pea paste and topped with cooked collard greens, finished with pepper vinegar.

Swimming Dog
A “pescaterian” dog, the wiener replaced by a fish fillet in a big soft bun and drizzled with tartar sauce.

OFF-LEASH MENU
(You Choose your wiener, your bun, and your toppings and condiments)

Wiener:
Choose between Vienna beef, standard dog, 100% chicken wiener, Polish sausage, jalapeño sausage, ground angus beef.

Bun:
Standard, poppy-seed, torpedo roll, pita bread, flour tortilla

Condiments:
Mayonnaise, mustard, wasabi sauce, ketchup, habanero pepper relish, yogurt, green relish, celery salt, vodka-laced mustard, tartar sauce (oh, I’ll add plenty more)

Toppings:
Tomatoes, onions, chili, sport peppers, jalapeños, shredded cheddar, kimchi, sweet pickles, dill pickles (this list will go on and on and on)

 

Posted in Business, Food | 3 Comments

Three Hundred Fifty-Four

Posted on December 20, 2015 by John Swinburn

I find it almost impossible to keep silent about something I so desperately want to say. But I’m afraid the world as I know it would end if I said it. Fear, or should I say cowardice, again wins the day.

Posted in Ruminations | Leave a comment

Library Tamales

Posted on December 19, 2015 by John Swinburn

Yesterday, after my wife and I picked up our special order of Christmas tamales from the tienda on the western edge of Little Rock, we stopped by the nearby library to return a book.  This is a relatively new library with a modern design; stacked stone, ample glass, and architectural metal. Simple but expressive minimalist gardens enhance the front of the place. Horsetail reeds fill a large rectangular bed directly in front of the building. Something about the design of the place reminds me of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Usonian style of architecture.

The design of the building is not its only unique characteristic. The place’s behavior is different from other libraries.

As we entered the front door, we heard a loud “Hi, welcome to the library!” from one of two librarians behind the desk at the far side of the shallow building.  The other one joined in, “Come on in!”

Having grown up with, and continuing to frequent libraries in which whispers were the rules of verbal engagement, those loud but friendly comments were startling.

Startling, too, was the realization during another trip to the same place a few months ago that the library not only lends books, but fishing equipment. Yep, you can check out a rod and reel from this place. And, of course, like many libraries today, this one also offers video DVDs and music CDs.

During one recent trip to the place, I commented to my wife that I would appreciate a library that would allow me to check out woodworking equipment. I doubt that will come anytime soon.

After the surprising difficulty we encountered in finding someone to provide the kind of tamales we were looking for, it occurred to me that the library could be a resource for locating people who make and sell tamales. Perhaps they are such a resource, but we didn’t ask. It would have been so much easier to simply ask, “Can you give me the names and numbers of any local tamale ladies?” (I think the sellers are all women.)

Despite the fact that we did not ask, nor did we receive, advice from the library, we found a source for tamales. A few weeks ago, we drove to Little Rock to the little tienda (El Mercado Latino) we stumbled on shortly after we moved to Hot Springs Village during a drive down Highway 5. We noticed a taqueria truck parked outside a little store and stopped to check it out. After consuming some pretty decent tacos (but having to do so standing up, as there was no place to sit), we went inside the store and found it carries quite a selection of fruits and vegetables, has a complete meat market in back (though I don’t recognize most of the cuts of meat and can’t communicate effectively with the butchers due to neither of us being fluent in the other’s language). And they sell gallon cans of jalapeños, which endears the place to me.

At any rate, during a recent visit we noticed they sell tamales by the half-dozen. We inquired whether they sell pork & jalapeño tamales. Nidia, the woman behind the counter, said they did not, but they could get them for us from their tamale lady. So, we ordered a dozen pork & jalapeño tamales and a dozen of their “regular” tamales (she let us have one to taste and we were sold on it).  We agreed we would return yesterday to pick them up.

So, we picked them up yesterday. Just as we were getting out of our car, an SUV with a smiling Hispanic lady at the wheel pulled into the parking lot. We went in to inquire about our tamales. The guy behind the counter asked us to wait a moment, then picked up the phone and made a call. I could understand just enough to know that he was calling the tamale lady and asking when she would arrive. When he hung up, he said “give me three minutes, okay?” We wandered around the store a bit, got a pound of chorizo at the meat counter, and went back to the front of the store. There was the tamale lady, the smiling Hispanic woman in the SUV, handing the tamales to the clerk. She smiled at us and I smiled back and said “gracias!” She acknowledged me with a nod and words I did not understand, then turned and left. I wish I could have gotten her name and phone number, but it wouldn’t have been appropriate to ask, since I ordered the tamales from the store. They deserved to make a buck off of the deal.

Inasmuch as the aroma of tamales filled the car, and it was lunch time, we went in search of food. My wife mentioned a nearby Mexican restaurant that she has been wanting to try, so we headed that way. I’m glad we did. La Tapatia Taqueria & Birria is a tiny restaurant. It is also now the place we’ll go to eat when we return to that library. We had some wonderful tacos. Each of us ordered an assortment, so we tried carnitas, chorizo, campechana, and borrego tamales. And fabulous salsas; they even brought a superb habanero salsa to the table. The one disappointment was that, with a name including Birria, I expected to find goat on the menu, but did not. Nonetheless, the place was quite a find. We will go back, soon.

Posted in Food, Just Thinking | Leave a comment

Three Hundred Fifty-Three

Posted on December 19, 2015 by John Swinburn

Paint your thoughts on a thin canvas with a feather dipped in graphite dust. You’ll have to explain, of course, but that will be reason enough for you to spend adequate time on the matter so you, yourself, will understand what propelled that feather, what created that image.

Posted in Ruminations | Leave a comment